


Utivich is a Virgin and Can't Drive

by samskeyti



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-14
Updated: 2009-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samskeyti/pseuds/samskeyti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~300 words on the subject "Utivich is a virgin and can't drive."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Utivich is a Virgin and Can't Drive

The sheer concentration, the effort of driving kept Utivich together. He focused so hard on idling at the cinema entrance without stalling or hopping forwards or somehow achieving that pinnacle act of going-nowhere he’d heard guys talk of and flooding the engine, kept his eyes on the dash and a hand on the stick and a hand on the wheel so that Donny’s going almost passed.

 

It would’ve passed but for his sudden turning back and grasping Utivich’s forearm, where he’d balanced his elbow on the sill of the open window as he’d seen the chauffeurs do in movies. Donny’d been sitting behind him the whole silent trip, just Aldo’s throat clearing from the passenger seat reminding Utivich of his job here, of their job, but he’d managed to block out any wonderings about the boys in back. He kept his eyes on the tail-lamps of the car in front, once or twice drumming his fingers on the wheel the way a bored chauffeur would, some fellow inching along Broadway with a big name passenger to get places. Nothing personal. Nothing worth remembering. Hell, if all he’s taking in is the car and the jammed traffic, it won’t leave much he’s got to work too hard to forget.

 

Until Donowitz doubled back to grab him and he startled and jerked his face up to see Don’s eyes, dark and burning and deeper than he’d ever seen before and Utivich’s mouth fell helplessly and silently open while Donny held onto his arm, thumb tracing a half-moon on his sleeve. He was beautiful in his white shirt and his tux with the single white bloom over his heart, fucking beautiful and by the time Smithson Utivich scraped up all his wits to say, “Donny,” hoarse and thick and altogether useless, Donny Donowitz was gone.


End file.
